


The Expansion Pack

by HurricaneSkyline



Series: Let Our Desperation Be Measured In the Weight of Our Tears [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Autofellatio, Awkward Sexual Situations, Demisexual Ignis, Demisexuality, Horny Teenagers, Masturbation, Multi, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plot With Porn, Possibilities Verse, Slow Burn, spoilers?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-04-30 20:00:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14504418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HurricaneSkyline/pseuds/HurricaneSkyline
Summary: Companion to my other fic, The Descent.The scenes behind the scenes.





	1. Crush and Burns

**Author's Note:**

> Hallo.
> 
> This fic is where all the smut, crack, and off main narrative stuff from The Decent will wind up.
> 
> As I've noted in other places (that keep repeating my notes for some reason I can't fathom pls halp), these chapters will probably not follow the same numbering as the main fic. I'll be sure to mark them so as to avoid too much confusion.

**Takes place during Chapter 2 - Duct Tape Fixes Everything (We're Fresh Out) and Chapter 3 - Styrofoam Bullets and the Candy Peanut Gallery from _The Descent_**

* * *

 

 

     Prompto Argentum has a small problem.

 

     Well, not that small. It's perfectly average in every way, thank you very much. He's not complaining. The problem isn't really in his pants. Well, it is, but that's more like a side effect. A distraction. It feels more like betrayal.

 

     Prompto Argentum isn't gay, exactly.

 

     Calling himself straight, however, would be outright lying, and he's not into lying to himself on top of everyone else. He's not really sure it matters what you call it, or even if he can put a label on it, because how can you really be sure what you want when you haven't actually had much of anything at all? The problem isn't so much that he doesn't know what he wants. The problem is that Prompto _very much does._

 

     It's not that he's changed his mind about how gorgeous Cindy is with her soft curves, and softer personality. He's only a man. He has eyes. He's pretty sure that isn't even it. The model-gorgeous mechanic somehow makes him feel like he's the hero of her own personal fairy tale when she talks to him, but at the same time seems like the most innocent woman on Eos. Then again, he's almost 100% percent certain that she and Holly are more than just 'good friends.” So lucky.

 

     He's definitely not changed his opinion on Aranea Highwind. She's about a million times more woman than the gunner could ever hope to handle, and he has no doubt that she would be the one doing the handling in any given situation. With her, it's the endless confidence, the skill and athleticism, and the absolute-zero threshold for bullshit. She doesn't seem like the type to need anyone on more than a temporary basis anyway, but who is Prompto to speculate? She's scary and gorgeous. Killer combo.

 

     No, neither one of the women were the problem. They were both untouchable, perfect satellites in their own right. The problem was his third, previously innocent, much better hidden crush. The marble pedestal holding him out of reach had crumbled to powder in an instant of terror and despair. That instant was also Prompto's new standard for 'stupidest moment of my life', but luckily no one else had brought it up. There hadn't really been time to process until after the whole thing, and between the nerves, the bereavement, and Gladio's sudden inability to not be weird about everything, he couldn't really wrap his head around the situation. The fact that his tiny crush based more on fondness, gratitude, and camaraderie had exploded into full-blown Prompto brand infatuation was just the Ulwaat Berry on the proverbial Tenebraean tart.

 

     It just felt so wrong. Ignis was so kind, so thoughtful, so accommodating, and so perfect. Well, was perfect. Seeing the aftermath of his failed attempt to kill himself for Noctis' sake kinda ruined that. At first anyway. It was hardly the first time any of them had gotten badly injured doing one stupid, dangerous thing after another, Ignis included. There was just something about seeing the cost of the adviser's devotion _in his flesh_ that obliterated the intangible force field that had made him untouchable up to that point.

 

     All of the sudden, Ignis was touchable. Literally. Every ridiculous reason his mind had provided over the years of tagging along after the Crown Prince that stopped Prompto from really seeing him as an entire person was gone. He had never felt so full and so empty. Being more or less forced through circumstance into a communal shower with Gladiolus and Ignis should have been mortifying. Having to watch Gladio's hesitance to help Ignis should have been concerning. The only thing that stopped Prompto from embarrassing himself in every possible way was the sudden numbness the loss of Noctis brought. The gunner knows himself. He knows that under normal circumstances his nerves would be crawling up the insides of his skull if he had to do something like that, but there weren't any nerves. There was just an uncharacteristically useless Gladio, ugly old tile, and the battered body that up until then Prompto hadn't even seen the bare feet of.

 

     So, while Gladio kneeled there like a statue, the task of bathing their friend who had been something very close to dead only minutes before fell to him. He still wasn't sure how he'd gotten through it. Something like necessity, something like respect, and something like... well. Prompto isn't sure what to call that. Still, his imagination filled in the bruises to match smooth skin, and the fresh scars burned into Prompto's mind as clearly as they had burned into Ignis' flesh. It really didn't help that the gunner hadn't had the option of skipping any part of the adviser's body. For some reason, the grossness didn't factor in at all. Likely, the concern was the culprit.

 

     So, now Prompto has a very, very vivid mental image of exactly what Ignis Scientia looks like completely nude and vulnerable. If he closes his eyes, he can still feel the smoothness of wet skin, the down-soft hair, and the dormant power in ridges of lean muscle under his fingers. He can describe, in great detail, exactly how Ignis feels on literally every inch of his body.

 

     The problem, and where the guilt comes in, is that he now has all of this visual and tactile information and while he consciously would just love to stomp it down with impunity, his own body and subconscious _really, really like it and know exactly what they want._

 

     Having to help a not really aware Ignis pee several times after the fact really did not help Prompto at all.

 

     Not that he's into _that_ it's just... Penis. Not his. You know. Ignis'.

 

     Prompto blows a breath out of the corner of his mouth and through the long fringe of blonde resting against his right cheek. Sitting at the tiny, glossy card table, staring at nothing and stewing while Gladio and Ignis sleep isn't exactly productive, but there's nothing to do now that he's eaten his fill of whatever the hell he bought off that tiny street cart. He really doesn't' want to play King's Knight. Probably won't ever. The gunner does need a shower, he knows, but the fact that he's going to be effectively alone for the first time in oh... a couple weeks maybe keeps screaming at him in the form of guilty flashes of skin and his hard cock pushing against his zipper fly.

 

     It hasn't really gone down for at least a couple hours, and Prompto tells himself that it isn't healthy to ignore it for that long. Wouldn't want to hurt himself, right?

 

     It's less than five minutes before he's leaning back against the shower wall, one hand pulling gently at his balls, the other stroking furiously at his cock. He can hear himself grunting and gasping and bites his lip so hard it hurts. Wouldn't do to get caught now, not when his toes are curling against the wet tiles and his mind is full of forbidden skin, and emerald eyes, and some nebulous idea that isn't really even sexual but it's Ignis and that's enough to make his balls tighten and his cock throb in his fist. He flicks his wrist over and over, and slides his other hand back to press behind his balls. He has to choke back a shout when he releases pearly ropes into his own fingers, breath coming hard and fast, legs trembling so hard he has to sit on the shower floor.

 

     Now, there's water in his ear and the shame is sinking in. He can fix the water, but Prompto hasn't got the first clue what to do about the second part.

 

* * *

 

 

     The next day, with the boat cutting across open ocean, Prompto has nothing to do again, but he isn't bored. Cid pilots since the three remaining friends never learned, and Gladio is doing rather ill-advised pull-ups off a rail. Ignis sits beside him, still and silent. The gunner decides looking at Ignis won't look too strange out here with nothing but water. He's asleep again, hardly the first time the adviser's fallen asleep on the boat, but he still looks exhausted even after four days of being mostly unconscious. Prompto runs his eyes along the elegant lines of Ignis' long legs under his well-tailored blue trousers, lets his memory fill in the space under his pinstriped shirt and those inexplicably attractive suspenders. He's dressed like someone's Lucian History tutor, but somehow is sex on legs. Prompto follows the graceful curve of his neck up to a dagger-sharp jawline and around the gentle curve of the shell of his ear. Smiles just a tiny bit as Ignis' jaw falls open just enough to show his overbite that the gunner's vocabulary can only provide the word 'cute' to describe. The overbite disappears behind a perfect cupid's bow, and Prompto realizes entirely too late that he's sitting here close enough to share body heat with the other man, smiling as he stares right into very much open and amused seafoam eyes. Shit.

 

     “Everything alright, Prompto?” And somehow the rich accent and richer timbre of his voice is even better from this close.

 

     “Huh? Oh, yeah. Great... Super.”

 

     Prompto Argentum has a _big problem._

* * *

 

**Chapter Bonus - Wherein Gladio Takes A Stroll**

 

     There's a pile of soggy, rotting sheetrock stinking outside the dive as far away from the Leville as Gladio can get without leaving Altissia altogether on an extended tour of Ravettrice. He doesn't necessarily want to be this far, but he needs to be drunk right now and everything inside Altissia proper is way too expensive for the volume of alcohol it's going to take to get someone his size as drunk as he's aiming for.

 

     The shield walks up to the very empty bar and pointedly watches the scruffy old man polishing a beer stein with a threadbare, stained rag.

 

     “Poison?” The old man's face is lined like crepe paper with age, his voice reedy, and Gladio can see when he places the mug down onto the weathered plank that serves as a bar that his hands shake with some variety of palsy.

 

     “Get me drunk old-timer.” the big man searches for the stool least likely to dump him on his ass while the elderly bartender rattles his way through glass bottles and crock moonshine jugs. The stool creaks, but holds his weight. The old man unceremoniously dumps a dusty bottle of slightly-cloudy clear liquor on the bar in front of the shield. Gladio doesn't even attempt to read the words on the label, but he can read the year 745 molded into the glass at the neck. Whatever this stuff is, it'll definitely do the trick.

 

     “You got this kinda gil?”

 

     “You tell me,” He knows this is a _bad idea,_ and if Ignis were with him he would let Gladio know exactly how shortsighted it is, but Ignis isn't here and the shield's mind pettily provides the justification that its more or less his friend's fault that he's here anyway. Gladio dumps his wallet on the counter, so fat he can only just barely fold it with the result of months of painstaking scrimping and squirreling away every gil he could spare from the last few months. Gladio had meant to spend it on his birthday earlier that year, but he couldn't justify the expenditure to himself when they couldn't even afford food security or a roof over their heads for so long. He'd just kept adding to his rainy-day fund, never able to find reason enough to blow it, but never having to get anywhere near spending it all when his he and his friends had gotten so much stronger. When they had gotten accustomed to being homeless and destitute. No reason not to spend it now. The ride had ended.

 

     He thinks the old man is smiling at him, but it's difficult to tell when someone has exactly zero teeth. Gladio shoves his wallet back into his pocket as the barkeep pours three fingers of the cloudy liquid. He doesn't spill a drop even with his violently shaking hands. This must really be good stuff.

 

     “Take it slow, boy.” the shield laughs as he knocks back a mouthful. There's no burn whatsoever as the liquor slides down his throat, so smooth that if he didn't know by the smell of the alcohol he would swear the old fart had swindled him. This is definitely the good stuff.

 

* * *

 

 

     An hour later Gladiolus Amicitia is _swimming,_ his wallet and pride both notably smaller. He knows the only reason he's not passed out choking on his own vomit is his size, and its gotten dark, and now he wants to get back to his friends just as desperately as he wanted to get away from them earlier. He scrubs the acrid spittle off the side of his mouth with the inside of his shirt neck and fights the urge to just take it off. He can't help the compulsion to keep his eyelids as open as he can to stop himself from falling asleep, and slowly takes a step away from the chipped facade of the building he's just finished losing his lunch on. Accordo is supposed to be geologically dormant. He's sure of it, but the world sways and lurches all the same. Gladio stands for a moment to gather his bearings.

 

     In his haste to escape the hotel, Gladio had forgotten something important. Altissia is built like a rabbit warren, a labyrinth of stairs, bridges, and water. He hadn't taken any gondolas to get here.

 

     His phone is in his jacket pocket at the Leville.

 

     “Fuck, me! Fuck me and my stupid fucking brain, and my stupid fucking everything, and fuck this city, and fuck that booze, and...”

 

     Gladio's ranting is cut off abruptly by saltwater when he trips over the edge of the waterfront. Luckily for him, the water isn't even six feet deep here, and the off-duty gondola driver that fishes him out is perfectly willing to take him back to the hotel even without the generous wad of wet bills he presses into the other man's hands.

 

 

 

 


	2. Unscheduled Maintenance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ignis' turn. \o/
> 
> Extra Warning: The bonus second part of this chapter isn't explicit, but is from a 16 year old Iris' point of view. She doesn't actually do anything, she's just a dumb teenager. If you're uncomfortable with her being underage, skip the second half.

**Takes place entirely during Chapter 3 - (This Page Intentionally Left Blank)**

* * *

 

     Ignis wakes in the dark, eyelids shuttered, and brow furrowed. The bedroom is still dark, the house is still quiet, but something has unsettled him into wakefulness. At first, he thinks its the lack of Prompto's presence. Then he wakes more fully and realizes that his cock is hard in his soft pants, and his breathing is deep and fast, and when was the last time this happened? Hmm... Ignis honestly can't remember.

 

     He listens again, lifts his head, and yes he really is alone. Ignis rolls out of the bed and out from under the blanket, pads sock-footed over to the door, and listens again. Nothing. Raises one hand to turn the lock in the doorknob, lowers the other over his clothed erection and _presses._ He swallows around the sound from deep in his throat.

 

     By the time he pads back to the bed and crawls back onto the mattress, he can already feel himself going flaccid. He tries, vainly, to coax life back into his cock, but it's too late. Ignis lies, staring at the reclaimed wood of the ceiling, one fist hovering over his crotch and has to fight the sudden urge to _hit himself._ Wouldn't that just be his luck that he would find out _that_ is what he's into. Instead he drops the arm to the mattress. Better to not test it.

 

     The ache in his groin is hardly new, anyway.

 

     Counting boards isn't helping him relax again, and Ignis sighs at the empty room. He can't turn off his brain to relax, he can't do anything to tire himself out without leaving the room and having to deal with people, and, as usual, he can't even masturbate to send himself to sleep. He fleetingly thinks that perhaps Prompto's presence would help. It had before. Wait.

 

     Ignis lifts his head to look down his torso. This is different. He sticks a thumb into his waistband and lifts. Watches himself come back to life like his penis is a particularly interesting scientific specimen. Pulls his package out of confinement and the elastic waistband under his balls. Contemplates.

 

     The truth is that Ignis Scientia had never been a particularly sexual man. He would go as far to say he isn't interested at all, but that explanation had never sat right in his mind. He knows that he's not into women. They are beautiful, no doubt, but distantly and without passion like fine art that he cannot understand. Ignis can better appreciate the male form, but has never had imagination when it came to sex. He had always found pornography disturbing, not because of its vulgarity, but because he got very little out of it. Porn just seemed so... Empty. It made him feel lonely, not horny. Every attempt to use such things for his own enjoyment resulted in more frustration and the all too familiar ache in his balls. Not that he couldn't get off, it either happened without him while he slept, or it was a race against losing his erection that he usually couldn't win. The second his mind started to try to get creative, the battle was lost. He had given up trying to figure out why. It had gotten more than a little depressing more than a few years ago. Ignis had grudgingly accepted that this is how its going to be, as he did with so many other aspects of his life, and left it at that.

 

     Yet... With the notion of simply sleeping next to Prompto Argentum, he is more aroused than he can remember being in a very long time. Even now, he can feel a flush growing up his neck and into his ears, feel his breathing going deeper again, and watch his cock twitch against his flat belly at just the general idea of the gunner. Ignis decides he has the luxury of taking his time for once and just lies in the bed and enjoys the feeling of being properly aroused. He likes the heat, the weight, and the pressure. He likes the way his body comes to life and his mind goes quiet. Usually, the only way to get his brain to shut up is adrenaline. No one has ever asked why he decided to take up tumbling combined with kicking around razor sharp knives. Ignis had to do something to keep himself sane during Noctis' high school years. Unfortunately, he is also responsible for tactics, so he can only allow himself to lose focus while training alone. Ignis wraps a hand around the base of his shaft and pulls, slowly and steadily, every tiny razor-thin scar and dagger callus dragging on the silken skin and thick vein all the way up to his frenulum. He stops there and presses his cock down into his abdomen, rubbing a thumb into his slit. He feels a groan rumble its way out of his throat as his hips thrust into the action, crown catching deliciously along the subtle, but solid musculature of his own belly. He smiles, wide and embarrassed at himself, but too turned on now to care.

 

     The creak of a door opening and closing again chills his blood and freezes him solid. Ignis' brain screams terror at him for several minutes until he hears the water rushing through the ancient bathroom pipes, more creaking hinges, and finally the shutting of the other bedroom door across the hallway. Now his heart is in his throat for a different reason, but it doesn't seem to affect his arousal. Ignis strokes himself gently and pulls his other hand up to cradle his heavy sack while he waits out the anxiety. He rolls his balls around in his palm and then just holds them. They ache a bit, but Ignis needs to figure things out. He isn't likely to get another chance anytime soon.

 

     If Prompto was the catalyst for this, and from the wave of arousal that goes up his spine and straight to his cock he definitely is, then that could be a problem. Prompto, while having more than a few qualities that Ignis admired, had never shown any interest whatsoever in men. For some reason, that particular thought makes the anxiety that usually sits like a band around his ribs tighten. Ignis shakes his head to dismiss the concept, but it lingers in the back of his mind. Prompto wouldn't want him like this. But, come to think of it, does he want Prompto like this? His imagination provides nothing at all, but his body is very fond of the idea. He'll have to settle for what he can get then. 

 

     Ignis' grip around his cock tightens, his hand wrapping around the base to pull his balls up with the shaft. He lets go and the sound of his cock slapping back into his belly is just as good as the feel of it. He does it again just because he can. Chuckles at himself. Shakes his head.

 

     The adviser looks around for a few seconds for something, anything to catch the inevitable mess, but the only thing available is his own pinstriped shirt hanging off the corner of the bed. He'll have to wash it tomorrow. All of his other clothing has been ruined, but for now this is the best he can do. He flips up and over to sit on his heels and spreads the shirt out under his knees. Spits in a hand. Takes a deep breath.

 

     Then Ignis is weaving his fingers together and thrusting into the tight channel between his palms and it's so good he falls forward into the pillows, ass in the air and hips stuttering into a brutal pace. He bites a pillow, knowing there's no way he can keep quiet right now, and just lets his body go. His breath comes so fast that every moan, every grunt pushed through his throat is cut off, his cock fucking into his fists even faster. The blankets are sliding under his knees, and the bedframe squeaks, but he can't stop now, and as his shoulders slide farther into the pillows he instinctively widens his stance to compensate. The head of his cock pops through the cage of his fingers and his hips slam forward. When the next thrust slams home all the way to the root, Ignis can't breathe anymore. His thrusts get longer and rougher, his head popping back and forth through the deathgrip around his cock, and pushing all the way forward till his taut balls smack the heels of his hands and the underside of his head is brushing the fabric of his shirt under him. When he comes, his cock pulses in his fists over and over, his muscles tremble with exertion, and he can feel his throat work through a scream there's no air in his lungs for.

 

     Ignis waits a moment for the orgasm to pass, gasping and cradling his cock. He feels accomplished that he somehow didn't collapse into his own release, and when he's able to sit up and look down he barely manages to swallow a laugh at just how much there is. He cleans himself up as best he can, and wads up the shirt for in the morning, tucking himself back into his pants.

 

     When Ignis lies back down, his body feels better, but his heart hurts.

* * *

 

 

**Chapter Two Bonus: Wherein Iris Is Curious and Subsequently Mortified**

 

     Iris had plenty of terms to describe Cape Caem. Picturesque. Quaint. Scenic. Right now, however, Iris could only describe it in one word.

 

     Boring.

 

     The night lasted so long nowdays that everyone was sleeping more, but the teenager had always had too much energy for her own good. With the boys minus royalty around, the house is even more crowded than usual. Talcott is in the lighthouse with Cid and the Marshall, and Iris had, as usual, given up hers and Talcott's shared room to sleep downstairs. Monica and Dustin got to keep their shared bedroom. Tonight, though, she's sharing a huge pallet of mismatched blankets with her huge brother as he snores softly next to her. Prompto had come downstairs from her room that he had been in with Ignis around forty minutes ago and padded around in the kitchen until he went outside. Iris can't see him, but she's sure he hasn't left the light of the front porch. She doesn't understand what exactly is going on with Ignis, but all the adults had insisted that he be allowed some time to himself. How that translates into time by himself including Prompto is beyond her pay grade. The dimmed screen of Iris' cell phone shows the low battery alert for the second time, and she turns off the screen and sighs. She had left her charger plugged into the wall in the bedroom.

 

     Monica comes out of their bedroom then, and shuffles to the bathroom. She'll sleep for at least four more hours once she goes back to bed. Monica is very dedicated to routine. It's a couple minutes after the woman is back where she belongs before Iris decides pacing is not totally out of the question. Her feet take her up the stairs and around the banister, quiet as a mouse, and she lets the fingers of one hand run along the cool metal of the railing. She stops dead, eyes wide and confused.

 

     There's a grunting sound. It came from her room where Ignis slept. Normally a sound like that meant someone is hurt or something, but Ignis is supposed to be asleep. That isn't the part that's confusing. There's another sound through the door, a deep, low, choked moan that Iris knows for absolute certain no one else on Eos could have made. She blushes hard, not sure what's she's hearing, but sure that this is something she should not be listening to. Instead of leaving and pretending absolutely nothing is going on like a sensible, proper lady, Iris drops to her knees and presses an ear to the door. Oh. Uh oh. Its getting a little warm in here.

 

     Iris may be a moderately sheltered sixteen year-old girl, but she is only human and she did go to public school. She isn't completely ignorant about what Ignis could be doing in there to make sounds like that. She tries the doorknob. Locked. Listens harder to heavy, quick breaths and choked, keening moans. Listens to the sound of her own bedframe protesting. Holds a hand over her own mouth.

 

     Ignis is masturbating in her bed.

 

     After the bed stops squeaking and the breathing slows to the point she can't hear it anymore, Iris sneaks back downstairs, closes her eyes, and pretends to sleep. She does eventually doze off, but not before her imagination starts providing her with things she doesn't know what to do with.

 

* * *

 

 

     The next 'morning', 1000 hours is way too late for the sun to rise, really, Iris decides to burn some energy and distract her mind with tending to the garden. This works for all of five minutes until Ignis wanders into the clearing in front of the house disheveled, drowsy, and absolutely gorgeous. The gorgeous part isn't new, but everything else lately is. Usually, Iris would compensate by never looking too long at the man. It wasn't hard when Noctis was also there to look at and tease. There's no Noctis here now. She works her fingers into the dark, rich soil and indulges. Looking won't hurt anything.

 

     Ignis rolls his pale shoulders under his nearly threadbare white tank, cracks his neck, and then folds completely in half at the waist, forearms wrapped around his calves and chest flush against his thighs. His feet are bare, even toes peeking out from under the bootcut hem of his blue trousers that fit him like they were sewn around his long, muscular legs. Iris barely stops herself from giggling. His feet are cute, almost disproportionately small for his six foot height, all of his toes perfectly even. Her eyes follow his form up as he ends the stretch and she feels the rush of heat that comes with the blush when her eyes are drawn to the front of his pants. She wants to look away, really, but the temptation of having any kind of visual to match the sounds he made last night are simply too hard to resist. Iris rolls her eyes at her own thoughts. Not like there's really anything to look at there right now. Its the idea of it.

 

     She lets her hands idly pull at whatever plant life they find under her knees and watches Ignis' torso twist as he continues his routine, pulling one arm over his head and exposing the dark blonde hair in the hollow underneath. He repeats the action with the opposite arm and Iris examines the greenish bruising wrapping around his ribs curiously. It doesn't seem to hurt him until he flinches when he twists too far to his right to grasp at his ankle. When he stands back up, his pants have worked their way low on cut hipbones, and his shirt is untucked and riding up the subtle ridging of his abdomen.

 

     That's when he starts to move and Iris knows there's no way he doesn't know she's watching, but she no longer can bring herself to care. Her jaw drops. She's seen this before, during the trip from Lestallum to Caem, but this time its different somehow. This time she can just watch as he throws his body through the air, flipping and spinning skillfully yet artlessly back and forth across the clearing, pea-gravel scattering and sunbeams highlighting the dust. She wonders how it must feel to be able to move like that. Like gravity is a suggestion.

 

     He only tumbles around for maybe two minutes before coming to a screeching halt, feet planted and ribs heaving. Tilts his head. Crap.

 

     Iris waits until he's walked around the front of the house before running and hiding behind a tree. It's not her most distinguished moment.

 

 

     Two days later, Iris knows its only a matter of time until Ignis confronts her. She only really tried not to get caught the first day and failed. Why not just be shameless then while she can? The carrots can only take so much abuse.

 

     She does not anticipate Monica.

 

     “Iris. Your brother requested I speak with you,” the retainer closes the bedroom door behind her. This is going to be horrifying. Iris stands frozen as Shiva's cold corpse. Fun time over.

 

     “Okay?”

 

     “It has been brought to my attention that you are displaying more than a passing interest in Ignis?”

 

     “Um.. What? No! Who? Yikes, really?”

 

     “Ignis himself felt compelled to speak with Gladiolus. He requested I speak with you. I have no reason to believe either young man would make this up, Iris.”

 

     Iris Amicitia wanted to melt through the floorboards.

 

     “You have been watching him train? Inappropriately?”

 

     Iris Amicitia wanted to jump head first into the caldera of Ravatogh.

 

     “Lady Iris, you understand how unacceptable this is, don't you?”

 

     “Yeah, I just. He's so... And everything here is so boring, but I didn't...”

 

     “There is no excuse. You're sixteen. He's uncomfortable. You cannot ogle a grown man because you find him a convenient outlet for boredom or self-exploration.”

 

     Iris Amicitia wonders if perhaps another world would be far enough away for her to hide.

 

     “Self what?”

 

     “I know you know what I'm referring to.”

 

     “Maybe I don't?”

 

     “Please tell me you aren't serious, Iris.”

 

     “Because if you're talking about masturbation, it's not like there's anywhere private to do that around here.”

 

     “At least we don't have to have that talk.”

 

     “I went to public school.”

 

     “Right.” Monica looks like she wants to hand in her resignation. Like the marshal is over her shoulder and can save her. Nothing but the closed door.

 

     “Iris, at first he thought you were being cute. Then you decided that because he didn't confront you that gave you permission to stare at him like a slab of meat. Before you ask how I know all that, let me remind you that my job is observation. Ignis didn't have to tell Gladiolus or myself any of this.”

 

     “I'm sorry.” And she really is.

 

     “You're sorry because you got caught.” Iris gasps sharply. Blushes, and looks away. Feels her eyes start to sting suspiciously.

 

     “I have to make sure you understand why this is unacceptable. Ignis is too polite and well trained to confront you on his own. What you are doing is harassment, Iris.”

 

     “What? I didn't actually do anything?”

 

     “Why? You believe because you didn't say anything to him or touch him that makes this okay?”

 

     “No.” A tear slips down Iris' cheek.

 

     “Imagine how you would feel if someone treated you like a sexual object instead of a person. Think this over very carefully, Lady Iris. Until you're certain you understand what you've done, do not offer Ignis an apology. Now that part is done...”

 

     “There's more?” Sniffle. She wipes at her eyes. Gross.

 

     “Yes, there's more. What brought this on?” At first Iris is confused. She doesn't understand the question. Then she does and the horror reaches new heights.

 

     “I'm not sure you want to hear that.”

 

     “It is my duty and usually my pleasure to care for you. I hardly believe...”

 

     “I overheard Ignis masturbate in here the other night.”

 

     In any other circumstance, Iris would have laughed. Monica looks like someone just dumped a bucket of cold water over her head, jaw on the floor and a blush rising all the way up her cheekbones. Then the retainer's eyes narrow.

 

    “Allow me to hazard a guess. You spied on him.” Crap. This is the problem with having a literal spy as a guardian. They know everything.

 

     “The door was locked. I didn't say I saw anything.”

 

     Monica slaps a hand into her forehead and groans aloud.

 

* * *

 

 

 


	3. Lion Without Any Pride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing smutty, just sad Cor.
> 
> And jangly guitar.

**Takes place during Chapter 4 - Superglue (Now In Sunshine Yellow!) from The Descent  
**

 

* * *

 

 

     Cor the Immortal is having a bad day.

 

     “You look like ya' ate a lemon.”

 

     He frowns harder. With conviction.

 

     “It ain't that bad, Cor.”

 

     He would, at the very least turn off or change the radio station. The jangly guitar is driving him insane one note at a time. He would, if he didn't already know that Cid kept a solid steel pipe welded into a makeshift and very effective truncheon between the bench seat and the driver's side door. Cor's katana can't instill fear into anyone when you're stuck in the cab of an ancient delivery truck.

 

     “Should be happy. Ungrateful asshole. See if I ever do anythin' for you lot again.”

 

     “Stop the truck, Cid.”

 

     “Now why the hell would I go and do that? Burnin' daylight.”

 

     “Let me out of this truck, Cid.”

 

     “No. Now settle down. I told ya' already there's even less room back there for ya' than there is up here.”

 

     “I hate you, Cid.”

 

     “I don't give a gods damn, Cor.”

 

     The Immortal takes a moment to question why all these horrible old vehicles are so small. There's barely enough room for the infuriating old mechanic to operate the gear shift between Cor's legs. Dustin, the traitor, stares out the window. The marshal tries to lean his head back, but the rear window latch smacks into the base of his skull.

 

     “Gonna have to camp somewheres.”

 

     “No. We need to get back to Insomnia.”

 

     “Well, that's just too bad. This old clunker ain't got the nice, fancy, Crown City headlights my girl Cindy found for them boys. Just not enough daylight anymore to make it all the way back to the garage in one day.”

 

     “Apologies, Marshal. I would like to live through the night.”

 

     “See, Cor? Not everybody has a damn death wish.”

 

     The song on the radio changes. More jangly guitar. This time, a fiddle is prominently featured.

 

 

     They don't have a tent, or any camping equipment, but Dustin did pack a fat stack of blankets into the bed of the truck. They stink of motor oil and desert moon dust. Cor declines when the man tries to hand him a couple. The stink of them would keep him awake just as much as the chill in the air from the slow-moving coldfront passing over their heads. Cid prods at the campfire more for something to do than because the fire needs tending. They had pushed as far along as they could, but Cor had to admit that they should have stopped at the chocobo post. He'd kiss Cid before he apologized to him, however.

 

     “It's late. Y'all should sleep while ya can.”

 

     “There's time. We're going to be stuck here for something like eighteen hours unless you've changed your mind about risking the roads.”

 

     “I'm old, not stupid.” Cor chooses to ignore the insinuation. “We shoulda brought a little somethin to eat.”

 

     “Hmm. I have something, but I'd need a pot to boil water. If we even brought that.”

 

     “I do have all of that, Marshal. I didn't expect I would need it so soon, however.”

 

     “Then go get it! What're you waitin' for?”

 

     “Its in the truck,” Dustin says and adjusts his glasses.

 

     “Dustin, do not make me regret taking you instead of Monica. The truck is 25 feet away. If you are truly that scared of demons, I'm leaving you in Hammerhead.”

 

     “Right, apologies.”

 

     “What do you got anyway? And where the hell are you keepin' it?”

 

     “The boys keep a great variety of things in the Prince's Armiger.”

 

     “Wait, they can do that?”

 

     “Apparently so. I imagine it has something to do with only four people using it. Well, five now if I count myself.” Dustin is making way too much racket. Truthfully, the Armiger also has cookware in it, but Cor is reluctant to borrow or use anything the boys might notice. He knows the they wouldn't mind, it just feels inappropriate.

 

     “A'ight then. Let's have it. What's for grub?”

 

     “Cup Noodles.”

 

     “Are you... Well, its food.” Dustin scrambles back up the stone ramp carrying a plastic liter bottle of water and an expensive looking copper-bottom pot that might have never been used. Cor fights himself to not roll his eyes outwardly. Only inwardly. At least he doesn't have to tell Dustin to boil water.

 

 

     An hour later, both Cid and Dustin are asleep. Dustin snores. Cid wheezes. Cor thinks he should have brought Monica instead, but Dustin, while perfectly responsible and reasonably capable, isn't good with children. Cor sits, his long legs folded under him only a little numb, with nothing to do but think.

 

     Dustin had stacked up the empty styrofoam cups inside his pot. The pot now looked used with the telltale soot marks from heating it in a wood-fed campfire. He sighs at it. Lately, spending so much time at Cape Caem, he's had very little to do, but this is admittedly boring. He's not sure if he's missing or dreading the work. Either way, Insomnia will have plenty of it.

 

     The only thing the marshal can think of to pass the time is to mentally rifle through the Prince's Armiger. The sheer variety of things kept in Noctis' Crystalspace is staggering. Cor has a suspicion that Noct is also in Crystalspace technically and not the actual Crystal. The distinction hardly matters.He's absolutely certain, however, that none of the boys, Noctis included, have any idea how Crystalspace actually works. The Armiger is meant only for weapons and curatives, but the completely unorganized mess is mildly entertaining.

 

     Cor can't see the contents exactly. He's not familiar with most of the objects, so he would have to pull them out in order to find out precisely what they are. There are curatives for days, mostly potions and the like, but some are an unfamiliar magic while others are clearly Imperial make. The Crownsguard never did find out how the Nif potions worked. They aren't as effective as the ones made by the hands and magic of Lucian royals, but they still promote healing. Just not instantly. The effect is gradual.

 

     Then there's the camping equipment, the clothing, a variety of tools that are nearly all Nif make, stacks of noodles and what he thinks is chocobo fodder, shiny rocks, CDs, a number of magazines about fishing or cooking, a very worn copy of Henruit's Silence of Knowledge, a great deal of various spices and herbs, weapon maintenance oils and cloths, a sewing kit, a well-used first aid kit, an empty bottle of aspirin, no less than three dozen fishing lures plus several poles and reels, Choco-Soft laundry soap, and that was just what he had already managed to recognize. That didn't even count the absolutely unnecessary number of weapons for only four people. Cor supposes that it makes sense since the Regalia doesn't have usable trunk space, but this is extreme.

 

     The first time he tried to pull his katana back out of the Armiger from where the Prince nonchalantly shoved it, Cor took twenty-two minutes to find it. Talcott timed it. The marshal shakes his head and allows himself to smile fondly. He returns to his mental flipping through Crystalspace, and something makes him pause.

 

     There is a sleeping bag inside the Armiger.

 

     Cor pulls it out in a flash of blue before he can think about what he's doing. Cid grumbles at the light, but doesn't wake. The bag is black all over, torn in multiple places, one of the zippers is stuck at the foot, and synthetic stuffing pokes out from various small holes. There's some kind of dark stain in it in at least two places, but it's impossible to tell what from with the black fabric and the low firelight. Suddenly, Cor wonders what stories this worn, battered object has to tell. He knows they all feature his King.

 

     This is Noctis' sleeping bag.

 

     Cor stares at it, uneasy at his own feelings. It's just a damn piece of camp equipment. He knows, of course, that his King (his third, damn it all) has gone somewhere none of them can follow. He knows that he's likely to be gone for a long, long time. He knows that the other boys left Cape Caem shortly after he, Cid , and Dustin. He knows that its just as impossible to get from Caem to Lestallum in only a few hours of waning daylight as it is to get from Caem to Hammerhead. He knows that there were no other bags in the Armiger.

 

     He had known all along that Noctis is destined to die. Cor thought he had prepared for that eventuality years ago, back when all of them were still tiny. Even Gladiolus was tiny once. He's never held onto any hope before that there was any chance to save him, but the only thing that Ignis seemed to be absolutely certain about was that he will not allow Noctis to die. He tried to sacrifice himself to stop it. Cor has no doubt that Ignis would do it again over and over. Its difficult to quash the hope that Ignis is right. He really would love to not see another King die before him.

 

     Cor doesn't sleep. He lies on top of the ratty sleeping bag and tries in vain not to hope.

* * *

 

 


	4. Lessons In Rhythm Mismanagement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Its called hubris, Ignis. Hubris.

    **Takes place after Chapter 9 - Greenlight of The Descent (Kinda....)  
**

 

  Ignis Scientia has a big problem.

 

     Well, its not exactly a problem versus lack of a workable solution. As far as far as how large the problem is, Ignis has exactly zero personal experiences for comparison and an equal number of objective opinions.

 

     The problem isn't that Prompto refuses to keep his hands to himself. Ignis would be lying if he claimed to not like the attention. Part of the problem is that he really rather does like having the gunner's attention. Another part is that Ignis is certain that Prompto means nothing by it. Absolutely certain. Yet another part is that Ignis really, really likes the attention, a bit too much for propriety's sake. These are just minor issues. The real problem is much more immediate, much more embarrassing, and potentially could ruin everything.

 

     Ignis Scientia has exactly no experience in trying to hide an erection.

 

     Stuck in a car biting his tongue for five days is frustrating, yes, but his frustration now is located in his pants. He was fine for most of it, the presence of Dino and Vyv distracting enough to ignore how good Prompto's hands felt on his bare skin. At first the blonde really was just warming his hands. Then, over the course of three days, the touches got gradually more intriguing. Prompto would flatten his palms over Ignis' abdomen. He would massage lightly with his thumbs, or knead gently with his entire hand. He would run his knuckles along the ridges of Ignis' musculature then later through the trail of soft, fine hair that ran between his navel and groin. All of this was incredibly inappropriate. Flawed creature that he is, Ignis doesn't have the willpower to stop what he would very much like to call blatant and very forward flirting if he weren't so certain that Prompto exclusively liked women.

     His protests are half-hearted at best. Prompto knows this. Ignis knows Prompto is right behind him. He continues his sorting of various potions and curatives and tries very hard to pretend that he doesn't anticipate the gunner's actions.

 

     When Prompto slides his hands under the back of Ignis' shirt, fingers spread and thumbs pressing along the curve of his spine, Ignis barely holds in the moan at the sudden arousal. Its not even an erogenous zone, but days of this teasing from the gunner have put his body on a hair-trigger. The hands keep sliding along his skin, up and around his floating ribs, fingers slotted into the dips between the corresponding muscle. The only thing that saves Ignis is that the press of fingers into his left side is right on top of the knot where one of his ribs hadn't healed correctly. His fist clenching and breaking a potion uselessly he can blame on the pain. The breath hissing out of him is real enough, anyway.

     The hands drop out of Ignis' clothing like he's made of his very namesake.

 

     “Oh crap! I'm so sorry, dude! Did I hurt you? Are you okay?” Prompto flutters around him now, hands flapping at the air in distress.

 

     “Quite alright, Prompto. Nothing to be concerned about.”

 

     “Are you hurt or something? That potion should have fixed it, right?”

 

     “I assure you, the potion was wasted. It is an old injury. Nothing more.”

 

     When Prompto finally walks away, Ignis silently thanks whomever invented thick, reinforced leather pants. If he's going to be in pain, then at least its only physical for once.

 

* * *

 

 

     By the time Cor finally announces the Armiger to his standards and dismisses them, Ignis' is suffering. His cock has been rock hard, strangled inside his clothing, and aching for the better part of an hour. He'd be concerned if his brain were still working to it's normal standard. As it is, when Gladio peels off to go see Iris and he and Prompto enter the room assigned to them, its all Ignis can do not to run into the bathroom as soon as the door is open.

 

     “You can have the shower first, buddy.” Sigh. _Buddy._

 

     “If you are certain. My thanks.” If the gunner changes his mind, Ignis might lose his.

 

     “Yup. I'm good.” Luckily, all of their essential belongings had been replaced in the Armiger. He had no need for any preparation to bathe, and simply stepped into the tiny, but surprisingly clean bathroom. There's barely room to close the door when he stands inside it. It is, however, a room with a door. Ignis knows he won't be getting a better option.

 

     He's so desperate to get his clothing off of his body that he nearly rips his shirt. Ignis dumps the stripped clothing in the corner by the sink and looks down his torso. He doesn't touch himself. Not yet.

 

     The fact of the matter is, that door is very thin, has a gap underneath, the object of his lust is just outside said door, and Ignis is aware that he's not exactly quiet. Not exactly loud either, but the distinction means little in this scenario. His hand shoots up to the switch for the vent fan mounted in the ceiling, then he turns to start the shower. Cold so as to not waste hot water.

 

     He's still not sure this will be enough, but what else can he do? Ignis almost considers gagging himself with his own shirt, but then he has a better idea. A genius idea. _The best idea he's had in weeks._

 

     He doesn't have any experience sucking cock, but how hard can it be when its his own? Ignis sits on the floor, the room not large enough for him to extend his legs. For whatever reason (he's learning not to question it), the idea of what he's about to attempt makes him throb, cock tapping against his belly and trailing a string of clear fluid. A thought makes him hesitate. Can he really do this? He's quite certain he's capable, but will he even like it? At that thought, Ignis wraps a hand around his cock and pulls upward, breath catching, and twists his wrist to gather the bead of precome that results from the action. He slowly brings the hand to his face and inhales deeply. The scent of his own sweat and musk makes such an effective argument, his head thumps back into the wall. He doesn't hesitate when he puts two fingers into his own mouth for a taste that drags a low moan from his throat. He's really going to do this then.

 

     After considering logistics, he changes position. With his shoulders against the cool linoleum floor, he flips his legs over until his spine curves and his feet brace against the wall above his head with his dick staring him in the face. The stretch is easy for him. Comfortable even. He doesn't need to strain at all, the head of his cock near tapping his chin in this position. He's fairly certain this is normally supposed to be a difficult thing to perform. Ignis smirks at himself.

 

     He wraps one arm around a thigh to help hold the stretch and brings the other hand up to hold his cock steady. Gives himself an experimental lick. Yes, this very much will do. He smirks again, then lets his lips fall open and taps the side of his face with his own cock. The sound it makes against his hollowed cheek would make him laugh if it didn't feel so good. No more time to waste, Ignis wraps his lips around the head of his cock and groans around it. His suspicions are confirmed. His penis muffles his voice spectacularly.

 

     Careful of his teeth, Ignis starts to move his head. The wet, lewd sounds make him moan, the taste and feel of it thick between his lips makes his lungs heave, and he breaths harshly through his nose with his mouth around his dick. The vibration when he groans is even better and he knows he won't last long. Ignis works his tongue around and over the crown of the head, and he can't stop moaning around it. That doesn't matter. He hears his voice crack in a whine and arms and legs tremble as his orgasm builds. His breathing stops as it hits him too fast and too hard, and his hips jerk forward exactly when the first shot of come shoots down his throat.

 

     Ignis is not prepared for this. He chokes.

 

     His head smacks into the linoleum. His come covers his face. He chokes and gags and gasps for air.

 

     “Hey, Iggy? You okay in there?”

 

     Still choking. Still coughing. Wait... _Did he lock the door?_

 

     “Ignis? If you don't say something I'm gonna assume I need to save your life.”

 

     Prompto is standing right outside the door. Ignis did not lock the door. He goes cold with horror.

 

     “I am...” Cough. “Perfec...” Cough. “Perfectly fine, Prompto.”

 

     “If you say so, buddy. Don't use all the hot water!”

 

     Ignis mourns the assassination of what little pride he has to his name as he rolls over to sit on the floor again. He wrinkles his face and his scars pull at the expression. Sticky.

 

     When he stands, he turns the lock on the doorknob. When he hops into the shower spray, he leaps right back out with enough force to throw his body against the opposite wall. Cold water. Right.

 

     “Iggy! What the hell!”

 

     What does Ignis need pride for anyway? He's sure it must be overrated.

 

* * *

 

 


End file.
